


Chances Missed Within The Silence

by nothing_rhymes_with_ianto



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-28
Updated: 2013-05-28
Packaged: 2017-12-13 05:55:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/820790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nothing_rhymes_with_ianto/pseuds/nothing_rhymes_with_ianto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He was only a dark specter that lived upstairs, just a strange and lonely man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chances Missed Within The Silence

**Author's Note:**

> I had A Most Peculiar Man by Simon & Garfunkle stuck in my head at work today and this is what came to my brain.

The upstairs hall is quiet and dark. The tired light that had been on in the window every day for years is extinguished. It's so unusual that Feuilly notices it when he goes to visit Combeferre, who lives in the same block of flats as Enjolras, Courfeyrac, and Jehan. It's unsurprising to find those individuals lounging about Combeferre's house when he steps inside. Enjolras nods as Feuilly sits down in the space they make for him on the couch. They're watching television, but the blonde leader is reading the newspaper.

"That guy who lived upstairs died on Saturday." Enjolras comments, frowning at the page. He's not sure why, but it makes him feel strangely sad. "They think it was suicide."

"Oh yeah," Combeferre nods, stretching his lips in sympathy. "I saw the ambulance. It was there when I got home from work. That's a shame."

"He was strange." Jehan says quietly. "Not a bad strange, just...strange. Mrs. Royer upstairs agrees with me. I spoke with her down in the laundry room. She said she thought he was very peculiar."

They sit in silence for a moment, as if remembering the dark-haired, dark-eyed, dark-clothed man that stalked the halls with a dull, tired expression and a mouth that never spoke. The man was a specter in the building, a haunted spirit that everyone could see. Enjolras thinks of how morosely gaunt the man always looked, like something inside him was missing and his body had deflated, collapsed inwards to fill the hole.

"I saw him sometimes. He never talked to anyone or looked at anyone, really. Even when he was out on the street." Combeferre rubs the condensation off his glass of water. "He wasn't friendly, but he didn't seem _mean_ or anything. He just...he always seemed sad, or apathetic, or something."

Courfeyrac has turned himself round and is now watching telly upside down, his head on the floor and feet in the air. "He wasn't much older than us, was he?"

"No." He was young, too young for a face that strained and a life that silent and small.

"He didn't have friends. I never saw anyone but him go into his apartment. People didn't talk to him. I know I never said hello when I passed him. What a lonely life. I wonder if he had any family?"

Enjolras nods. "This article says he has a brother somewhere in Auvergne."

"He was always buying alcohol. I only ever saw him with his arms full of bottles, never food."

"I wonder what that must have been like," Jehan muses, mostly to himself. "To live all alone in a flat in a building full of people and never connect with any of them, even if you see them in the hallways all the time. To just sit there in your rooms and read or sleep or watch telly or drink and not talk to anyone, not see anyone at all. To feel like you're missing something but never wanting to go out and find it enough. To just drink away the loneliness or the boredom. To just be stuck within yourself with nothing to shut off all the little whispers your head makes. It must have been awful."

Enjolras thinks of the dim light that shone plaintively out on the street as if searching for something. He remembers one night when he was walking home from an event, and a dark shape was leaning against the window, pressed to the glass. The man looked like he was yearning for something, like maybe if he tried hard enough he could find whatever it was he was missing, like he wanted to press himself against the glass until he became something else entirely. He remembers pausing for a moment, feeling the prickle of a gaze on him, but it wasn't a bad feeling. Still, he had continued on and by the time he reached his door, he had forgotten about it.

He remembers running late for class and dashing out of his flat, running straight into the man. The dark specter had said nothing, only stared at him for one long, incredible moment and Enjolras felt like the man was looking into his soul. The cloudy eyes had gazed at him and for a moment, there had been something, some emotion there before a blink shuttered them again and the sullen creature had stepped back and trudged away towards the stairs.

"Someone should have been kind to him," Jehan is saying, twisting his hair around a finger. "Gone up and said hello, or taken him groceries, or something like that."

"I don't think he wanted friends, Jehan." Combeferre sighs.

"That's absurd. Who doesn't want friends? Who doesn't want company, at least for a little while. At least for comfort?"

"I don't know."

"Does it say how he died?"

Enjolras blinks at the page, which has become a strange jumble of letters, dark stamped on light. "They said gas inhalation from the stove. They suspect suicide."

"That's terrible," Courfeyrac murmurs. "He was strange, sure, but that's terrible."

Enjolras stares at the print on the page. It feels like something has been stolen from him, like some distant knowledge or some future chance has blinked out of existence. It's a bizarre sense of loss, like when your foot falls asleep even though you're not sitting on it. There's a sudden ache in his chest, and he wants to curl his shoulders against it, against whatever has been yanked away from him so cleanly he doesn't even know what it is. There's some strange feeling as if he's made the wrong choice, taken the wrong fork in the road, like he's missed something somewhere and now he's too far away. This friendless stranger in the window seems to be an echo that beckons him, and now it's faded away. He feels a sudden wash of grief for someone he's never spoken to in his life, a sense of loss too acute to be normal. His hands shake where they grip the paper.

"What was his name?"

"Grantaire." Enjolras finds himself choking on the name.

Combeferre sits up and stares at him. "Enjolras? What's going on? Why are you crying?"

The words have gone blurry. Enjolras touches a hand to his cheek, only to find it wet. The ache still blooms in his chest like a bullet wound, but there's no way to explain the hole. "I don't know."


End file.
